Where the hot flush is burning. We retrace
All early time in dreams; and hear the low,
Deep cadences of prayer, and press the hand
That led us to our happy slumbers then.
We look on riper seasons with the eye
That painted them all sunshine, and forget
That we have found them shadows; and we trust
Life’s broken reed as lightly, and repeat
Our first young vow as movingly, again.
Such dreams refresh the feelings, like a pure